Ridmark stopped, sniffing at the air.
“Saltwater,” he muttered.
He must be getting close to the surface.
He stood in a long gallery, pillars supporting its vaulted ceiling. More statues lined the walls, waiting in niches. Here and there bones dotted the floor, but not as many as in the lower levels of the dungeons.
Perhaps fewer intruders ever made it this far.
He kept walking, and then stopped as a new smell flooded the air. A rank odor touched his nostrils, one more familiar than he would have liked.
The corrupt blood of an urvaalg.
It smelled as if it had been spilled recently.
Ridmark kept walking, Heartwarden ready in his fist.
The gallery ended in a flight of stairs that spiraled upwards. Ridmark started climbing, his eyes scanning the red-lit gloom for any foes, his ears straining for any sound of battle.
He turned the first circuit of the stairs and stopped.
An urvaalg crouched there, ready to spring.
Ridmark braced himself, Heartwarden raised in guard.
But the urvaalg remained motionless, and after a moment Ridmark realized the creature was dead. Someone had carved deep wounds in its chest and back, black slime dripping upon the white stairs. A sword wound, then, one delivered with enough force to pierce hide and muscle and bone.
And a magical sword, if it had killed an urvaalg.
Had Rhyannis killed it? Ardrhythain had not mentioned if the bladeweavers carried magical swords, but it seemed likely. Or did more dark elves than the Warden dwell in Urd Morlemoch? Perhaps the urvaalg had gone berserk and attacked its masters.
He climbed the stairs, and found three more dead urvaalgs upon the steps. Two had been killed with a single powerful sword thrust through the heart, and one had been beheaded entirely, black slime spattered across the walls.
Someone had fought three urvaalgs at once and prevailed. If it was Rhyannis, if she was free within Urd Morlemoch, Ridmark could rescue her, and they could retreat through the dungeons before the Warden even noticed them.
He took another step and heard sounds echoing down the stairwell.
Growls and snarls…and a man’s voice raised in challenge.
A man’s voice speaking Latin.
Ridmark raced up the stairs.
If another man of Andomhaim was in this horrid place, Ridmark would not leave him to fight alone. He remembered what the urshanes had said about the Dux sending a rescue mission. Had there been an element of truth of to their lies?
Ridmark felt the cold, salt-scented wind upon his face as the stairs opened into a wide courtyard lined with columns. The strange, unnatural black sky stretched overhead, the ribbons of blue fire dancing across it. A half-dozen dead urvaalgs lay scattered across the courtyard, and a half-dozen more moved in a wide circle, growling and snarling.
A knight stood in the center of the circle, clad in chain mail and plate, a soulblade shining in his right fist.
Ridmark had never seen him before. The Swordbearer was middle-aged, with gray-streaked black hair and a close-cropped gray beard. Blood marked the left side of his face, his lips drawn back from his teeth in a snarl. He looked like a man who had been fighting for days without rest, his blue eyes wide and bloodshot with fury and exhaustion.
“Come on, then!” he roared, lifting his soulblade, its soulstone flashing with white light. “Come on, dogs, come and face me!”
One of the urvaalgs lunged at him, and the Swordbearer reacted with lightning speed. The white-glowing blade licked out and opened a gash on the urvaalg’s shoulder, and the creature slunk back with an angry growl. Another urvaalg lunged, and the knight just managed to dodge the strike. He struck another urvaalg, forcing the creature to reel back, but the others closed around him.
They would rush him and kill him.
Ridmark charged forward.
“For God and the High King!” he bellowed at the top of his lungs, hoping to draw the attention of the urvaalgs. “For God and the Dux!”
The Swordbearer saw him, his eyes growing wide, and some of the urvaalgs spun to face Ridmark. The older knight took the opportunity to strike, and his soulblade plunged into the back of an urvaalg. The beast roared, went rigid, and collapsed to the ground. The other urvaalgs hesitated, trying to decide if Ridmark or the other Swordbearer was the greater threat.
Ridmark crashed into them, calling upon Heartwarden to lend him strength and speed. Before the nearest urvaalg could get its balance, he slashed his sword in a two-handed blow, taking off the creature’s head in a fountain of black slime. The other knight took advantage of the confusion, his soulblade blurring and taking off an urvaalg’s arm. The creature screamed in pain and fury, and the Swordbearer opened its throat with a quick thrust.
Another urvaalg lunged at Ridmark, but with Heartwarden’s speed, he avoided the blow. The urvaalg lost its balance, and Ridmark swung his sword and severed the creature’s hamstrings. The urvaalg toppled backwards, slashing and snarling. Ridmark stabbed down, driving his sword through the creature’s heart. He whirled and caught his balance as the other Swordbearer slew another urvaalg.
Only two of the creatures were left, and both of them charged at the older Swordbearer, roaring with rage and madness. Ridmark stabbed one of them in the back, and the Swordbearer slew the second with a swift thrust. The dead urvaalgs toppled to the white flagstones of the courtyard, and silence fell over the ruins of Urd Morlemoch.
Ridmark and the Swordbearer stared at each other.
“What is this?” said the Swordbearer at last. “Another delusion of the Warden’s magic? A phantasm? Or are you another of the damned urshanes, come to fool me?” He shook his head. “No…no, I’ve never seen you before, and the urshanes steal a man’s memories to weave their lies. You are a Knight of the Soulblade?”
Ridmark nodded. “I am.”
“Blast and damnation,” said the Swordbearer. “Then has another fool stumbled into the lies and webs of Ardrhythain?”
“What do you mean?” said Ridmark.
The Swordbearer grunted, cleaned his blade on a dead urvaalg’s fur, and returned it to his scabbard. “What is your name, sir knight?”
“Ridmark of the House of the Arbanii,” said Ridmark. “I am a Knight of the Soulblade, in service in the court of the Dux of the Northerland.”
“Ridmark Arban?” said the knight with a grunt. “I know your father. Good man, solid man. My name is Lancelus Tyriar, a Knight of the Soulblade in service to the Comes of Coldinium.”
“I have never visited Coldinium,” said Ridmark, “and I fear I have never heard your name before. But it is always an honor to meet another Swordbearer.” He looked around at the bleeding carcasses of the urvaalgs. “Especially one who can survive in such a grim place.”
“Likewise it is an honor to meet you, sir,” said Lancelus, “and I am grateful for your aid. But I grieve to see you here. I would rather have fallen beneath the claws of the urvaalgs than have seen you in battle.”
Ridmark frowned. “Why?”
“Because it means another man has fallen into Ardrhythain’s trap,” spat Lancelus.
“Trap?” said Ridmark. “What trap is that?”
“Let me guess what has befallen you,” said Lancelus. “I suspect one day Ardrhythain showed up in the Dux’s court, cited the Pact, and demanded the service of a Swordbearer to rescue an elven bladeweaver from the ruins of Urd Morlemoch?”
Ridmark nodded.
"You volunteered, I assume?” said Lancelus.
“Aye,” said Ridmark.
Lancelus grimaced. “Better that you had not. Much the same happened to me. Four weeks past, Ardrhythain presented himself in the court of the Comes of Coldinium, and made the same demand. The Comes chose me, and I traveled north to Urd Morlemoch. I have been trapped here ever since.”
“The archmage did not say he sent other Swordbearers into the ruins,” said Ridmark.
“Nor did he tell me,” said Lancelus. “If my
reckoning is correct, I think you are the eighth Swordbearer that deceitful swindler has sent into this hell.”
“Eighth?” said Ridmark, aghast. “How do you know this?”
“I have seen their corpses, found their soulblades,” said Lancelus. “Some survived long enough to aid me, but were cut down in the end.” He shook his head. “And a few fell victim to the ghastly traps in the catacombs below. I fear the Warden’s cunning is matched only by his love of cruelty.” He sighed. “I was the only surviving Swordbearer…and I grieve that Ardrhythain has sent another innocent into this deathtrap.”
“But why?” said Ridmark. “Why would he send eight of us?”
“Because he can,” said Lancelus, his voice full of bitterness, “and because we mean nothing to him.” He spat. “The lives of the elves are beyond us, Sir Ridmark. They live a thousand years, and an archmage like Ardrhythain can live for thousands more. We must be like flies to them, born in the morning and slain in the afternoon. The life of one bladeweaver matters more to Ardrhythain than every man, woman, and child in the High King’s realm…and he will not hesitate to sacrifice as many Swordbearers as necessary to rescue the wretched elven girl.” He shrugged. “When we are slain, Ardrhythain will simply send another, and another, and another, until either his precious bladeweaver is rescued, or he has slain every last Knight of the Soulblade in Andomhaim.”
“I see,” said Ridmark at last. The high elven archmage had warned him more than once about the dangers he would face within the walls of Urd Morlemoch, had given him every chance to turn back. Yet Sir Lancelus’s words also rang true. The high elves lived for millennia. What did the lives of mere humans matter to them?
But Ardrhythain had given magic to the humans, rather than allow the urdmordar to destroy them. Yet perhaps that was because he realized the knights of Andomhaim would make effective weapons against the urdmordar, caring nothing for the fate of the High King’s realm…
Ridmark shook his head. Such speculations were useless, and he had more immediate problems.
“How do you suggest we proceed from here?” said Ridmark.
“We escape from this madness,” said the older knight. “You came up from the catacombs?” Ridmark nodded. “Then the way is clear, at least for now. Sooner or later the Warden’s vile creatures will find their way into the tunnels, but we should be long gone by then.”
“You intend to leave?” said Ridmark.
“I do,” said Lancelus, his hard eyes narrowed. “Ardrhythain led us astray and sent us here to die. I see no reason to honor my word to him.”
“Very well,” said Ridmark. “I will escort you to the secret entrance. From there you can make your way back to Coldinium…”
“And you can go back to Castra Marcaine,” said Lancelus.
“No,” said Ridmark. “I will venture back into the ruins and continue searching for Rhyannis, or at least for knowledge of her fate.”
Lancelus tilted his head to the side, his eyes narrowing further. Ridmark felt the older man weighing him.
“Are you utterly mad, boy?” he said at last.
“Perhaps,” said Ridmark. “I gave my word to find Rhyannis or learn of her fate, and I have done neither as yet. I am a Knight of the Soulblade, and I will not break my given word.”
And he had no wish to go back to Castra Marcaine, and to Aelia, empty-handed.
“Ardrhythain lied to you, boy,” said Lancelus, angry now, “and you are still going to do his bidding?”
“He didn’t lie,” said Ridmark. “He simply did not share the entire truth.”
“A lie by omission is still a lie,” said Lancelus. His hands had curled into fists, and Ridmark wondered if the older knight was going to attack him, if he had been driven mad by the horrors of this place.
“True,” said Ridmark, “but he did not lie about the vital matters. Rhyannis is in danger, and he needs the aid of a Swordbearer to retrieve her. I intend to be that Swordbearer, and to escape here alive with Rhyannis.”
“You will perish,” said Lancelus.
“All men die,” said Ridmark. “Better to perish in pursuit of some great deed, I think, instead of cringing fearfully in the corner.”
For a moment he thought he had said too much, but Lancelus did not move. “You would truly do it? You would take me to the exit, let me escape from here, and then return to face all the horrors alone?”
Ridmark shrugged. “If I must. I would prefer help, though I have no right to command you.” He thought of the bones, the trap, and the urshane wearing Aelia’s face. “And after the horrors I have already seen…no, I could not blame you or any man for fleeing.”
To his surprise, Lancelus threw back his head and roared with laughter.
“You surprise me, Ridmark Arban,” said Lancelus, all trace of his anger gone. “Such boldness. Could you do it? Yes, I very much think you could. How surprising!”
“Sir Lancelus?” said Ridmark. Again he wondered at the older Swordbearer’s sanity.
The levity vanished at once. “You have shamed me, Sir Ridmark. Your determination to press on with your quest, your valor…ah, but they are worthy. Forgive my bitterness, I beg, and let me aid you.”
“I will gladly accept any aid, sir,” said Ridmark. “Two swords have a better chance of success than just one.”
“Truly,” said Lancelus. “And now that you are here perhaps we take a great risk. Dare we?”
“Dare we risk what?” said Ridmark.
“I think that Rhyannis is still alive,” said Lancelus, “and I know where she is.”
“Where?” said Ridmark.
“This way,” said Lancelus. “Keep your eyes open for foes. From time to time the mutated orcs come into the ruins, and the Warden’s damned urvaalgs wander freely.”
He led Ridmark to the edge of the courtyard. They passed through an archway and stood on the edge of a wide street. Ruined mansions lined the street, broken domes and crumbling towers rising out of the white walls.
“There,” said Lancelus, pointing.
The massive white tower, the stronghold of the Warden, rose from the heart of Urd Morlemoch. The tower filled half the black sky, rising like the bone of some long-dead, colossal beast jutting from the earth. Ridmark saw hundreds of statues lining the tower’s sides, statues of dark elven warriors and wizards, of urvaalgs and ursaars and urvuuls, of stranger creatures he could not recognize.
And three ribbons of ghostly blue flame danced and writhed around the tower, rippling in the air overhead like banners caught in the wind.
“She’s in there,” said Lancelus.
Ridmark grunted. “I suspected as much.”
Lancelus grinned, his teeth flashing in his graying black beard. “You think that I am stating the obvious. The tower is huge, no? But I know exactly where the Warden is keeping Rhyannis.”
“Where?” said Ridmark.
“A room called the Chamber of Stone, on the tower’s thirty-ninth level,” said Lancelus. “I overhead some of the mutated orcs discussing it. Apparently they caught her trying to enter the library in the tower’s highest levels, and she slew many of them. They overpowered her in the end, and are holding her prisoner until their master awakens.”
“Awakens?” said Ridmark, puzzled. “Then the Warden is…sleeping?”
“I suspected hibernating is a better word for it,” said Lancelus.
“Ardrhythain said that the Warden is undead,” said Ridmark, ignoring the scowl that crossed the older man’s face at the mention of the archmage. “Surely such a creature would have no need for rest.”
“The Warden, if that wretched Ardrhythain did not lie, is over fifteen thousand years old,” said Lancelus. “Such a span of years must be a heavy burden to bear. I cannot prove it, but from what the mutated orcs have said, I suspect the Warden sometimes falls into a…stupor. A waking dream, like a monk mediating and falling into a trance. And he appears to be in one of those trances now.”
“Then this is our best chance to
enter the tower and rescue Rhyannis,” said Ridmark.
“I thought as much,” said Lancelus. “Unless you have reconsidered, and wish to take the course of wisdom and flee this place before the urvaalgs return to the catacombs.”
“No,” said Ridmark. “My mind is made up.”
Again Lancelus threw back his head and barked that mad, wild laugh. The time in Urd Morlemoch, Ridmark suspected, had not been kind to the older Swordbearer’s sanity.
“So be it!” said Lancelus. “Two knights storming the tower to free the fair maiden from the evil sorcerer’s clutches, eh? How gallant! Perhaps if we live, those wretched elves will make a song of it, one of their interminable epic poems. Or maybe the bards of our High King’s realm shall make a ballad of it? The two Swordbearers, the tower, and the maiden? Certainly I would give a golden coin to the bard who sang such a song for me.”
“Perhaps we should rescue Rhyannis and escape before we concern ourselves with the songs,” said Ridmark, uneasy. He did not know how Sir Lancelus would react in battle. Still, the Swordbearer could obviously handle himself in a fight. No novice with the sword could face so many urvaalgs and live.
“Yes, quite right,” said Lancelus. “Follow me, Sir Ridmark. The main gates to the tower are layered with many potent wards, but there is a side entrance for the Warden’s servants. We shall use that…and may God have mercy on any who stand in our way!”
He led the way through the dark streets, the white stones gleaming eerily around them, and Ridmark followed.
***
Frostborn: The First Quest Page 8